


Captive

by home



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Experimentation, Fingerfucking, Gay Male Character, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Oral Sex, Pain, Rape, Rape/Non-con References, Rough Sex, Sexy Times, What Was I Thinking?, bottom!Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/home/pseuds/home
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - A team of doctors, nurses and scientists have created a compound in which werewolves stand no chance. Their most recent subject catches the eye of a young doctor, causing him to rethink everything he thought he knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Derek’s face is pale as he falls (or is pushed, as it is) heavily to his knees. 

He swallows back the bile that forces its way up his throat. A sharp pain shoots through him, and he pinches his eyes shut, his jaw locking. The collar affixed tightly to his neck is lined in wolfsbane, making his vision swim and his head pound. It was bad when they put it on, and it’s been getting worse by the second. It needs to come off, and sooner would be better.

His head drops and the muscles in his stomach in clench tightly. His face pinches and teeth clatter with ever shudder that runs through his body. He will not vomit. He will not let it happen. He can make it through this.

Inhaling with purpose, he forces his eyes open. How long has it been since he’s slept? He isn’t sure. He searches for the strength to lift his head, but a heavy boot to the small of his back has him sprawling on all fours, his forearms shaking as they struggle to take his weight. 

“Special delivery,” someone says from behind him.

From his vantage point, Derek sees only the shoes of his captor. Defiantly, his eyes follow the outline of the man before him.

The perfectly unobtrusive tennis shoes, the dark jeans, covering, what, 140 pounds of barely-developed muscle? Stiles' arms are crossed, and Derek isn’t positive what he expected, but when his eyes reach his face, he can’t help the scoff that escapes him.

He knows it’s a mistake as soon as it’s out, which, incidentally is confirmed with a heavy elbow slamming against his jaw. 

His head sags and blood pours from his mouth. He fights the vomit that he feels rising.

“Where’d you find him?” the man (kid?) asks, his voice and demeanor holding an innocence that his actions counterbalance. 

“Old house in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere,” comes the reply. 

Derek tries to refocus his eyes, but the floor is still spinning. With the wolfsbane, he’s unable to heal himself. He’s unable to do anything but kneel on the floor and take what is given to him.

He feels a hand on the back of his head, fingers tangling into his hair. His entire body recoils at the touch, an automatic response.

“Take it easy, dude,” the kid again, his cooing demeanor sparking Derek’s defiance once more. Unfortunately, the thought alone of moving in that moment make his limbs shake. 

The warm fingers press into his neck and he gasps, the pressure increasing his skin’s contact with the collar. He bites his lip to keep from crying out, his muscles twitching and his fingers curling into fists against the floor. He swallows it back. Again. 

“He’s not looking great.” The boy’s tone is casual, as if discussing the weather.

“We had to dart him twice before we could get close enough.”

Stiles nods in agreement; what’s being said makes sense.

The wolf weighs a solid 200 pounds, he suspects, lean muscle covering every inch of his body. 

It’s no matter, though. 

He lifts Derek’s head by the hair, forcing his face upward. 

Derek swallows, immediately regretting it – the collar. His grits his teeth and hisses, trying desperately to still the muscles in his neck. 

With his head being held at such an odd angle, he is hopeless against it. He tries to steel himself from the influx of pain. With whatever strength he has left, he pushes himself to his knees and grabs desperately at his captor’s arms. 

In this condition, he’s no match for Stiles. He’s losing himself in the pain, unable to think. To get through it. 

“Please,” he hears himself choke out, and is immediately disappointed. He’s begging – how long has he been begging?

Stile’s head tilts to one side and he regards Derek. 

Through barely-open eyes, Derek stares back. His body is shaking, his fingers still wrapped around the man’s forearms. 

After what seems like an eternity, Stiles pulls his arm free from the barely-there grip and lets him fall. He lands on his back, hard, but is relieved that the extra pressure is off of his neck. He sucks in a deep breath, the air stinging his raw throat. 

His eyes are shut, his head lolling to the side, the last of his energy quickly departing him, when he feels the hands on his forehead.

He’s lost to the world, the pain and the fatigue and the abuse of his body weighing him down. His left eye is forced open, and he can’t even attempt to pull away. There’s a blinding brightness that makes his already pounding head feel like it will explode instantly, and then it stops. His right eye receives the same treatment, but he’s prepared this time, and he focuses solely on his breathing.

“Jesus,” he hears, “Yeah, uh. Take him to 4b. Get the collar off him, and let him get some sleep. We’ll do intake in a few hours.”

“You want him on an IV drip?”

Fingers push the collar aside, the wolf’s back arching desperately at the pressure, and probe his neck. He hears himself screaming, but the sound is disconnected from his mind. 

It seems to go on for an eternity, his feet kicking out uselessly against the ground, the arch of his back deepening with every moment of agony. 

Stiles releases the collar and carefully removes his fingers from the (now semi-lifeless) neck of the man before him. He pries open his jaw and is met with little resistance. He shines the light down the throat, noting the damage.

“No,” he says finally, massaging the wolf’s jaw. Derek swallows, his breaths coming in ragged bouts. “He’ll be alright.”

With no more words passed between them, Derek somewhat expects to be lifted. So it comes as a brutal shock when a chain is affixed to the collar and pulled, hard.

His entire body coils tightly and retaliates. He can hear nothing; he can see nothing. The vomit, which he’s been able to successfully keep at bay, makes its way out with a vengeance, and he can do nothing to stop it. He can’t breathe. He feels as though he’s dying, and for all he knows, he might be. A part of him whispers that death may be the better alternative, but Derek is a fighter. His hands grasp the chain, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his neck; his feet somehow oblige, carrying him toward his captor, toward whatever temporary relief might await him when he gets there. He just needs to get there.

\------

Stiles stands on the other side of the two-way mirrored wall, watching the wolf’s body heal itself. The process is fascinating, the muscles and tissue visibly regenerating themselves within minutes of damage.

His eyes narrow as he watches the welts across the wolf’s shoulders close, the swollen red replaced by an intensely muscled, flawless back. 

He is healing quicker than expected, now that the collar is off. Stiles hadn’t scheduled the intake procedures for a few hours still, but at the pace this one is coming around, he’ll be ready sooner rather than later.

He pulls up the schedule on the tablet before him, leaning back in his chair and puffing out a breath.

He is exhausted. They’d called him in right after dusk on the tip, just two hours after he’d left for the day. Now, he’s been awake for over twenty-four. There is really no end in sight; he is always present for intake, which can take upward of twelve hours in itself.

He pushes the three on the keypad and waits. 

“Yes?” The nurse’s voice comes through clearly.

“Intake on 4b is scheduled to begin in three hours – I’m gonna get some sleep. Don’t begin without me.”

“Of course not.”

Stiles makes his way through the hallways, peeking at the various wolves in their cells. Most of them are asleep, some of them pacing. He makes eye contact with none. 

When he gets to the room he’s seeking, he opens the door, but doesn’t even bother with the light. He sheds his shirt, then his pants, flips the lock, sets his alarm, and is asleep within minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy #nanowrimo! 
> 
> Anyone participating? I yam.
> 
> So no set publishing schedule. YAY. 
> 
> And seriously, the fuckery that ensues isn't for everyone. Thanks for reading :)

Derek stands slowly, allowing his limbs a chance to adjust. Cautious, he tests them, still vaguely feeling the effects of whatever was in the darts.

He takes an inventory of himself and his environment: on first glance, the walls appear stainless steel. The white tile floor is cool on his bare feet, and they match the ceiling. In the cell that barely allows him to lay flat, there is nothing else. 

Not a single object; no bed, toilet, blanket, clothes. Nothing. An eerie quiet encompasses him -- he can't recall a time where the sounds of the world weren't a constant background chatter. Stainless steel? It is unlikely.

Derek stretches his arms and rubs his neck gingerly. He shakes away the onslaught of images that accompanies the action, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. 

There is a mixture of scents in the room, all vague, all overshadowed by the sickly sour smell of bleach. Beyond that, though, he is able to identify two: the scent of the man who dragged him in here and the (much more distant) scent of wolf venom. Not his. Definitely not his.

He takes a tentative step forward, keen eyes searching for something. For anything. He isn't so naive to believe that escape will be simple, not with the professionalism with which he was captured, but certainly it is attainable. If not today, then tomorrow. Or the next day. The next week. He can survive this. Whatever this is. 

Although, there is that gnawing sensation that the unknown is potentially far more dangerous than he can presently imagine it to be. He just needs to think, and all this damned silence is making it impossible.

He's careful as he walks toward the perimeter, not entirely sure what he will be met with. Wolfsbane, electrocution, Mountain Ash; there are a number of possibilities, and intuition tells him that these people know them all. 

Keeping that in mind, Derek leans in close to the wall. He inhales. Nothing. He has the thought to shift, that it would maybe heighten his senses just enough to be able to identify the composition of his cell, but no. He can't do that. Not yet, anyway.

As he walks the perimeter, Derek feels the anger welling in his chest. It's not productive, and it won't help, but it's there nonetheless. And time passes. God, how much time passes? He paces back and forth. He tests various locations around the cell that might lead him to escape. He examines the small number pad, considering merely destroying it, but he discards that notion quickly. He grows violent, eventually. He kicks. He punches. He gives it everything he's got, which is unarguably not a lot. He couldn't have slept long.

And when it becomes very clear that no matter how much he brutalizes his cell, it will not budge, he finds the nearest corner and sags. His energy is depleted, and frankly, his fucking neck still hurts. He curls up and wraps his arms around himself, letting his chin rest on them. And he watches the door.

\------------

"How long's he been awake?" Stiles is nursing a cup of coffee in one hand, scrolling through the schedule on the other. Coffee tends to make him more jittery than normal so he typically avoids it, but he'll need the caffeine today. 

"2 hours and 13 minutes."

The wolf hadn't slept long. It is probably better this way, Stiles thinks, as he steps in front of the window. The wolf is sitting in the corner with defiance written all over his face. Stiles stares into the greenish eyes, which seem to look right through the wall and back into his. A fighter. That's what Stiles sees when he looks at this wolf. He takes a long sip from his cup, and as he stares endlessly into those eyes, he realizes that coffee might not be enough to get him through the day.

While there was something inexplicably drawing about a wolf who didn't roll over and die at the first sign of trouble, it would most definitely make all of their jobs more difficult -- especially in the beginning.

"Stiles?" Lydia, who would be his right-hand on this particular case, comes up next to him. He breaks eye contact with the wolf and regards her. Until she joined the team, Stiles was the youngest lead. At 17, he graduated high school, with several college level credits already to his name. Now, just five years later, here he stands, face to face with the other prodigy. "Are you going in?"

"Ahhhh," he groans, turning back to the wolf. It's a risk, but one that he's obviously contemplating, or she wouldn't have asked. He could go in with a barrier in place, to protect himself. But showing weakness so early would be negligent at best. Self destructive at worst. He sets his coffee down and moves to a shelf, retrieving a small case holding syringes full of wolfsbane. He takes two (just in case), and makes to exit the observation room. "Keep an eye out?"

She nods in response, moving so she has a full view of the cell.

"Good luck," someone says in passing, pushing a cart full of equipment. Luck is no factor, though, because there is only one outcome for the wolf. And ultimately, Stiles knows, he'll decide for himself how it plays out.

He punches in his code, and at the prompt, gives his name. Voice recognition makes it nearly impossible for anyone unauthorized to enter the cells, and authorization is hard to come by.

The door opens. Stiles expects, in this moment, for the wolf to charge -- to make his first attempt (of what will likely be many) of escape at this opportunity. With the insolent ones, it almost always happens. Instead, the wolf's head snaps up and it becomes quite clear that what Stiles had seen observed in the observation room was the one legged kitten version of defiance in comparison. Still, there is no offensive action taken.

"Sooo," Stiles hedges, trying to keep from smiling. Defiance has little place here, but the sour-wolf face on the hulking body paints quite a picture. "I see you've settled in."

The wolf snarls, baring teeth, and Stiles steps over the line that divides them. His hands remain in his pockets, though. Dr. Argent would say this is needlessly idiotic. An unrestrained wolf is a dangerous wolf, and as the door closes behind Stiles, he's smart enough to know the truth in that. 

Still, he's done this dance before, and with bigger, badder things that go bump in the night. He's no stranger to superhuman speed, and his reflexes have been trained to react. 

Stiles doesn't go any closer. There's no reason to. "You're looking better --" he starts, and the wolf begins growling. Stiles considers. "That's going to have to stop." It doesn't.

"Suit yourself. You're scheduled for intake in about five minutes. A team is preparing the area for you." Stiles speaks over the constant low rumble coming from the corner. He hasn't shifted yet, which is unsurprising, but Stiles remains at the ready. "It's going to happen, one way or another. If you cooperate, it'll go smoother." Teeth are bared once more. Stiles nods, his lips tight. His raises his eyebrows and shrugs, then, and adds, "For you. It'll go smoother for you. Frankly, I don't really care either way. You'll eat when we're finished, and when exactly that is, is highly dependent on your choices over the next several hours. Do you understand?" 

He waits for a response that he knows he's not going to get. He scoffs, his breath coming out in a sharp burst, and shakes his head. Fucking idiotic werewolves. "So, at this point, you can stand up and walk with me, or you can sit there... and... growl." Stiles approaches the wolf, so pale, a light sheen of sweat still visible from the chemicals that linger in his system. He bends down, crouching on his feet, so they're eye level. He's close -- too close, probably, since this wolf still is without a wristband. "You have a decision to make, and you have five seconds to make it." His voice is just above a whisper.

Without another word, Stiles stands and turns his back on his subject, taking deliberately placed steps toward the door. He punches a code, different from before, states his name, and it opens. As he walks out, four very large men enter behind him. His eyes close at the first sound of the wolf's growl.

\------------

The wolf is hoisted onto the table, body limp and breathing heavy. Sweat is covering every inch of him, and Stiles can tell that the team is struggling. He will invariably lose, but he's putting on quite a show. It took them longer than usual to get him here.

Stiles and Lydia are leaning casually against the wall, both interpreting events in their own way.

For Stiles, the creature before him is an animal; a rabid one at that. His predecessors have attempted rehabilitation programs, have attempted to release human part of the body from the wolf part, have even attempted simply monitoring from a distance. And, because of an apparently incurable evil that goes along with the gig of werewolfism, failure was an inevitability each time. Stiles will not allow himself to make the mistakes of those before him. Werewolves are singularly focused on violence. On killing. 

Images of his father swarm before him, and he shakes them off. This really isn't the best time to let his old friend, bitterness, seep in. 

Against the restraints, the wolf struggles. An older guard holds a taser, ready to hit him (again, Stiles imagines). The metal cuffs are clasped tightly, wrists affixed to the table first. The wolf doesn't take it laying down. Stiles wonders, at one point, if he's dislocated his shoulder in the completely rabid flail. He shakes his head. If he thought it'd help, he'd tell the wolf to calm the fuck down, but it would be wasted breath.

The guards manhandle him until he's flat on his back against the steel, the hands fisted and pulling against the restraints. When the second wrist cuff clicks into place, they move to the ankles. It's simple now -- he still fights it, but the moment in which he knows he's lost has passed, and his heart isn't in it anymore. He's fighting for the sake of fighting, and nothing more. 

It's not until the final cuff is in place and the guards retreat that he stills. A muscle works in the jaw and he stares right at the ceiling, swallowing. The anticipation is upon him now, the unknown.

All told, there are now five people in the room. Stiles and Lydia have been joined by two assistants. Together will spend the next seven to eight hours with their new charge, feeling him out. 

His perfect stillness is eerie, but Stiles expects that it'll be short-lived. That's why a guard remains, ready to intervene if something should go terribly wrong. It never has, but it's protocol. 

Stiles approaches the wolf slowly, noting that the hands are still fisted, the toes curled tightly, every muscle poised for rebellion. Calmly as ever, he looks at his tablet. It reads similar to any standard intake form: height, weight, age, pulse, blood pressure, type, etc. There are questions that are less common: eye color, hair color, the length of each limb, etc. And then there are the questions that a typical human would be shocked to see: length of canines/incisors/molars, sperm count, nail length, muscle density, etc. 

Add to that the fact that each question appears twice. Human form and lupine form. 

This is the first block on the mapped out schedule. 

Stiles begins without pause. Some of these questions will be left unanswered and the data will be collected throughout the day. Some of them will be answered in the coming weeks. Anything that can possibly be recorded within intake, though, typically is.

He is aware of Lydia coming beside him, but Stiles wants to make the first move. He wants this wolf to understand. 

When the stethoscope contacts his chest, the reaction is instantaneous. Fists pull at the cuffs, hard. Teeth are bared. A growl, so strong that Stiles can barely hear the too-rapid thud-thud-thud of the heart (a confirmation of panic), resonates.

The sharp flinch that the wolf displays would ordinarily catch Stiles off guard, but he is keenly aware of everything in the room. Lydia has begun filling in bits and pieces of the chart, his own tablet reflecting what her assistant enters.

He takes the data and moves to his lungs. They'll monitor his vitals closely over the coming weeks, which will insure more accurate readings, but for now, this will give them a starting point. 

"Easy," he says, the wolf flinching as the stethoscope is repositioned against his ribcage. "It doesn't even hurt." There is an unspoken yet lingering, and Lydia snorts, and they both continue doing their work.

Time drags, both of them focused on their own tasks. Together, they fill out the human form section of the chart. The wolf form is slightly more complicated, so they will work on it when they finish what the wolf has absolutely no control over before starting the real battle.

He doesn't shift. Stiles sees him fighting it -- fighting the instinct to rip apart everything that lays a finger on him -- but he holds it back.

Stiles is continuing his with his portion of the chart when the wolf's reaction suddenly changes. From fairly collected, albeit a little growly, the dog on the table begins violently fighting once more. Stiles looks down to see that Lydia has the testicles between her thumb and her forefinger, and a muscle in his stomach tightens. They've done this tens of times. Maybe even hundreds. Still, he feels his hands freeze in place, his eyes watching her movements.

It shouldn't bother him. He's not sure why it does. She pulls on the wolf's scrotum a bit and he kicks and bucks against the restraints, the muscles all along the thighs and calves straining. With one hand on the wolf's chest, Stiles can feel the heart rate increasing. 

He forces his attention back to what he was doing. It's difficult, but possible. He continues doing... what. What was he doing? 

He looks at his tablet. Under his hand, the wolf's muscles are constricting. He's fighting, still, and Stiles notices blood on the hands, dripping from the restraint point. 

He shakes his head, clearing it. 

Uhh... heart rate. Right.

He grabs his stethoscope, recalling having already done this. The wolf is still fighting, growling, screaming. Repeating. 

From the kit, he retrieves and empty syringe and moves to draw blood. This is something that he's confirmed still needs completed, and he's prepared to get it together and just fucking do it, when he hears Lydia quietly (and to her assistant) request something.

In his peripheries, he sees her reaching for the lubricant, and immediately sets down the syringe. 

Oh, hell no. The wolf is in a state of complete and utter panic, and for some ungodly reason, it seems that Stiles is nearly there, too.

"Switch," he says, no laugh, no chuckle. His face is stoic, and Lydia eyes him speculatively. 

She raises an eyebrow, challenging. When he doesn't respond, she laughs and removes her gloves. "He's all yours."

Stiles is satisfied. Whatever that was, it needs to cool it, but in the meantime, all is well. He applies a small amount of lubricant to his fingers, and then he forces the wolf's thighs apart. Both assistants are required to... well, assist, to maintain the position.

There is an uncanny mixture of screaming and growling, which helps keeps Stiles grounded. This creature, this... thing... is not human. He may look like it, and hell, he may even act like it, but science and experience tell a different story. He's far from it. 

It's the kind of growl that tells Stiles I-will-kill-you-on-the-first-opportunity. It's the kind of the growl that makes Stiles remember what he's here for. Bring it on. 

With some coercion, he's able to push his finger into the struggling wolf. The back arches deeply, a futile attempt on the part of the wolf to extricate himself from his assailant. The guard comes over, putting his weight onto the abdomen, forcing the creature back to the table. Stiles enters again, this time probing. 

The muscles there are tightly constricted -- purely instinctual, but leaving little room for movement. Stiles pushes in further, and the wolf cries out. It's an unexpected sound, amongst the screams and growls, and Stiles considers if talking him through it would be to anyone's benefit. 

"If you relax your muscles, it won't be as bad." Lydia, continuing her work, seems to have taken the initiative in the situation. She pauses to stroke his face, and Stiles takes the opportunity to push his finger in the rest of the way. Again, the wolf tries to buck, but he's outmatched in the moment. His breathing is erratic, the chest heaving. Stiles locates the prostate and prods around, feeling for any abnormalities. The wolf is twisting -- or trying to -- the head moving from side to side with the efforts. 

With practiced detachment, Stiles extricates himself from the wolf's legs, quickly wiping him clean. 

\--------------

It's noon, and Stiles absently plays with the wristband between his fingers while finishing his lunch. He's left the wolf in the care of Lydia and her assistant, where she'll continue with him. When Stiles returns, Lydia will be able to eat lunch. The wolf will not.

Stiles is growing tired of the growls and the fighting, and sort of wishes it would end sooner rather than later. He expects the worst is to come (it usually is), and tries not to dwell on it. He feels unsettled by the potential events of the rest of the day. A necessary evil, though. 

These are werewolves, after all. 

How did his life become this? He tries to trace it back to the moment which threw his career on its current trajectory, and recalls the exact instant when he made the decision. Does he regret it? Not necessarily.

He stands, setting the band back into its case. He polishes off his donut and sanitizes his hands on the way out. It is routine.

As he makes his way to the intake area, he passes several people. 

Two dragging an unconscious wolf down the hall. 

One, fully suited, carrying a briefcase.

He nods, stopping at an empty cell for a moment. His hand twitches toward the pane and he stops himself. The sentimental bullshit is for interns and new recruits.

He holds the air in his lungs for a moment too long, then sighs it out and moves on.

He arrives at the large, sectioned room, his new subject still strapped tightly to the table. It won't be like this forever, he wants to say. The wolf has his head turned to him, the eyes open, but he doesn't make a sound. Exhaustion is written on every line of his face, breaths still coming too fast.

"Welcome back," she says, not looking up from her tablet.

"Having fun?" 

"Another day in paradise." She peeks at him then, and he follows gaze to the case he's carrying. The wolf does not react. Stiles isn't positive exact what's running through his system in this moment, but it must be something strong, for as wily as he was an hour ago.

After reviewing what's been done over the past forty minutes, Lydia exits. Stiles approaches the table, setting the briefcase on a small tray of equipment and pushing on the latches. From the case, he takes a small vial, and fills an empty syringe. The wolf watches. 

"I know this is rough," he says, stabbing the needle in and pushing the plunger. He takes the wristband and moves it just above the wolf's hand (which is, miraculously, still fisted). The device is smart enough to fit itself once closed, and Stiles watches with satisfaction as it tightens and tightens until the wiggle room is nonexistent. Still, he tests it, just to make sure. 

Until further measures are taken, this will ensure the wolf stays in check. 

On the table, the red indicator turns green, the status bar now flashing active.


End file.
